


sweet homecoming (is what you are after)

by brophigenia



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angelica Has Her Eyes On You, F/M, Feminism, Gen, satisfied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-27
Packaged: 2018-07-27 00:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7596208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And you hate him in that moment, as much as you are drawn to him. You will not call this love—this is not love. This is obsession, this is passion, this is understanding. You hate the way he sees straight through you and prophesizes to you about your own future and your own present and past and infinity. You are Angelica Schuyler, and he is nobody, an immigrant orphaned bastard with not a cent to his name. </p><p>But that’s not quite true- he’s Alexander Hamilton.</p><p>(another Satisfied fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet homecoming (is what you are after)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Odyssey ("Glorious Odysseus, what you are after is sweet homecoming/ but the god will make it hard for you." (line 100)
> 
> Did we really need another Satisfied fic? Probably not. But yet here we are.

He says it like a secret— _you have never been satisfied. I’m never satisfied._

And you hate him in that moment, as much as you are drawn to him. You will not call this _love_ —this is not love. This is obsession, this is passion, this is understanding. You hate the way he sees straight through you and prophesizes to you about your own future and your own present and past and _infinity._ You are Angelica Schuyler, and he is _nobody_ , an immigrant orphaned bastard with not a cent to his name. But that’s not quite true- he’s _Alexander Hamilton_. Everyone here knows his name.

And poor Eliza, who’s always loved things she didn’t quite understand, things that weren’t very good for her. She loves you so much, after all, and you are a scheming dark thing, a demon to her angel.

What you want to say is _do you think I don’t know that?_

You are a woman in a man’s world, you are a secondary citizen, a step up from a slave—you live in a gilded cage, you live in a cage that the maid laces you into every damned morning, pushed and prodded and squeezed at every waking moment to be what a man deemed you ought to. You live with the impediment of layers of stifling satin and cotton and lace, pounds of accoutrements to keep you tired and sore and hot and suffocated. You live in slippers that do not allow for a quick pace, a convenient getaway.

How could you _ever_ be satisfied? You want to spit in his face, and for a moment you think about actually doing it, throwing off everything you’ve ever been taught by your governesses and your mother and your finishing schools.

His eyes are hungry like a wolf’s as he stares at you, hungry and bright and _knowing._ He sees your bristling. He sees it and he relishes it, and you have heard what the maids whisper about _Hamilton._ You know exactly how _unsatisfied_ the man is. Insatiable, more like. But what’s more—you see the way he sizes up the place, the way his eyes fall onto the corner where your father holds court with his guests, the easy way you and your sisters conduct yourselves within your home. And he _wants,_ you see it for yourself. He wants a home and a chance to be _satisfied._

You ache behind your eyes and between your thighs and your fury melts into chilly realization.

You do not spit in his face. You take him by the arm, because you are still young enough (though not for much longer) to do so and be excused under the guise of innocent excitability. Eliza had murmured her claim in your ear, and you do not for one second entertain plans to pretend like she hadn’t. You draw him across the marble floors, and thrust him at your younger sister with a flourish.

 _I am about to change your life,_ you say on the way, because if this man cannot be satisfied by the lovely gentle wisdom of Elizabeth Schuyler, there’s no hope for him, after all.


End file.
